


Tale of Wanderer

by HewerOfCaves



Series: B2MeM 2019 Stories [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Creepy, Gen, I Tried, Maglor (Tolkien) Through History, POV Outsider, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 15:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18167036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HewerOfCaves/pseuds/HewerOfCaves
Summary: In days of yore, in battles long,He’d vanquished armies with his song.Written for:Fëanorian weekDay 2-Maglor ->Childhood,Music & Songs of Power,Elrond & Elros, Kingship, Maglor’s  Gap, RedemptionBack to Middle Earth MonthHorror CardO75: Tombs and Crypts





	Tale of Wanderer

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still too scared to write Maglor properly, so have a Fourth Age-ish old man telling children scary stories about him.
> 
> Not a native speaker, not beta'd. I'm not a poet.

On one dark night when lightning strikes,

When rain pours down onto the grass,

An old man gathers kids around

And tells them not to make a sound.

 

It’s story time, the children know,

With interest their bright eyes glow,

The elder lights his ancient pipe

And starts when deems the time is ripe.

 

"This is a tale from days of old

Of singer with a voice of gold,

Who long ago left all he had

And chose the life of a nomad.

 

He wandered long near the sea,

Lamenting all that’d come to be

In years past, in years grim,

And rocks and water wept with him.

 

He sang of all the world had lost,

Of stolen light; too high a cost

Was paid for it in Elven blood

So many lives gone still in bud.

 

He could raise waters with his voice

Bring down mountains if so he chose,

In days of yore, in battles long,

He’d vanquished armies with his song.

 

But neither sea, nor music fair,

Nor western wind that stroked his hair,

Nor power songs scribbled on sand

Could wash the bloodstains from his hands.

 

And so one day he went away,

Left the white shores and gentle bays,

Stopped not in forests old and green,

And never was again he seen.

 

He went not where white flowers bloom,

He hid away in gloomy tombs,

There buried deep without a friend,

He’s waiting for the world to end.

 

In darkest crypts, he’s sealed himself,

And when remains no other Elf

In Middle-earth, when they go West,

He will still stay in his black nest.

 

Not much remains from his fair form,

But people say when there’s a storm,

When sky rages and beats a gong,

His voice joins it in mournful song. 

 

While others say that it is him

That inside his catacomb dim

Weaves songs of power from the tomb

To bring the world near its doom.

 

When the waves break upon the shore,

When the land shakes from its deep core,

It is his voice in darkness chill

Reminding all that he lives still."

 

The old man ends his tale with this,

The children hear the cold wind hiss,

Bring from deserted realms remote

A single shrill, dolorous note.


End file.
